26. Ryan #2
So did the restraints they cut from his wrists, the guns, the forced entry, the sabotaged security system, and the statements eventually taken from two of the men Henri hired after investigators tracked them down, because I guess professional criminals become surprisingly cooperative when their dead employer can no longer pay for silence, and prosecutors start discussing conspiracy charges.
Most of all, Henri’s own history came crashing into the investigation almost immediately.
The files had already spread exactly as intended.
Proof that Henri had spent decades arranging crimes and manipulating the people around them.
By the time the forensic reports were complete, nobody examining what happened at Camille’s estate had to take my word for the fact that Henri Voclain was dangerous.
It was just a fact.
I still killed someone.
Legal language does not make that disappear.
Therapy has been very clear on this point.
My therapist is also very clear that “I don’t regret stopping him” and “I am disturbed that I killed a human being” are allowed to exist simultaneously.
I hate nuanced emotions. They’re exhausting.
For the first month, I dreamed about Henri constantly.
Sometimes he died, sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes I was back in the lab and could not get the door open.
Sometimes Camille told me “Je t’aime,” walked away, and no matter how hard I begged, he never came back.
Those were worse, but they happen less now, thankfully.
Camille leans against the doorframe, watching me with a soft expression. “You are smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Shit. I am.
Not about my nightmares, to be clear. The smile is for the paper in front of me.
The long-stay visa took paperwork, money, appointments, translations, proof of insurance, more paperwork, explanations of finances, and at least one morning when I became convinced France’s true national pastime is requesting documents I had already submitted.
But it is approved, and I get to stay.
I tap the envelope. “Still real.”
“Yes.”
“They could change their minds,” I tell him.
“They could also abolish cheese tomorrow.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“My point is that neither seems particularly likely.”
“You don’t know. Maybe somebody in Paris is looking at my file right now, going, ‘Actually, the American is annoying. Deport him.’”
“You would have been removed months ago if annoyance were sufficient grounds.”
“Wow.”
“Objectively.”
“I invite you into my home,” I say dramatically, before starting to make our coffees.
His coffee is black, stark in its white ceramic cup. Mine is a pale, grainy beige from the three heaping sugars I stirred in. He watches me take the first sip, his mouth a tight line of disapproval.
We carry them through the open door into the lingering evening. The heat has broken, leaving air that smells of dry grass and the distant hint of woodsmoke.
I sink into my chair, tucking one foot up under my thigh. Camille sprawls opposite me, all long limbs and relaxed grace, his legs stretching halfway across the stone tiles.
The quiet settles over us like a blanket.
Not the tense, waiting silence Paul weaponized—that heavy stillness where I’d count my own breaths, waiting for the explosion.
This is different. This is just… quiet. The rustle of leaves in the olive grove, the distant chime of a goat bell, the soft click of Camille’s cup meeting its saucer.
It took months to stop flinching at this kind of peace.
“How was the university?” I finally ask.
“Tedious.”
“Students?”
“Mostly.”
“You love them.”
“I tolerate them.”
“You brought extra reference material for that first-year last week.”
“He required it.”
“You remembered his thesis topic on amphibian venoms.”
“That is my job.”
“You’re soft.”
Camille turns his head slowly, the setting sun catching the silver in his eyes. I hide my grin behind another sip of overly sweet coffee.
“Say that again,” he demands jokingly.
“Tu es…” You are… I search for the French.
He waits.
Patient bastard.
“Doux?” Soft?
His eyebrows rise.
“What?”
“Technically correct.”
“But?”
“Depending on context, you have just called me soft, gentle, sweet, or possibly implied something about texture.”
I look at his chest. “Texture works.”
“Ryan.”
“French is a beautiful language.”
“You are corrupting it.”
“Colonizer.”
“I am French.”
“Exactly.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Neither does having masculine and feminine tables, but here we are.”
“Tables are feminine.”
“I know. I have suffered.”
Camille laughs, his head tipping back slightly, eyes closing. The scar at his temple catches the sunlight as I watch him, feeling so light.
There were moments when I thought we would never get here.
We didn’t magically become functional after Henri died.
That would have been convenient, but no, that first month was awful.
Camille wouldn’t stop hovering, and I’d snap at him, but then he’d try too hard to not hover and become distant, which led to me accusing him of avoiding me, which led to him pointing out I had asked for space, and I told him there is a difference between space and acting like I have a restraining order, to which he asked me to define the difference.
Therapy helped.
Separate therapists.
That was non-negotiable.
Camille needed somewhere to put twenty-three years of grief that wasn’t me.
I needed somewhere to put Paul, my parents, Alberte, Henri, Camille, murder, France, and the fact that apparently I am capable of falling in love with a man who owns enough venomous snakes to require specialized insurance.
Camille nudges my ankle with his shoe. “You disappeared.”
“Thinking.”
“Oh no,” he murmurs.
“Shut up.”
I look toward the cottage, then say, “I’m glad I stayed.”
The humor leaves his face. “I am glad too.”
“I didn’t stay for you.”
“I know.”
“I have…” I gesture vaguely. “Things here. A life.”
The word feels good.
A life.
Not a hiding place, not somebody else’s house, not a temporary stop between disasters.
Camille reaches across the space between our chairs, his palm faced upward. I put my hand in it and his fingers close loosely around mine. They’re never tight enough that I couldn’t pull away.
“You know,” I say, “my French teacher says I’m improving.”
“She is paid to encourage you.”
“I hate you.”
“Je sais.” I know.
I grin. “Je t’aime.” I love you.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Je t’aime aussi.” I love you too.
This one comes out differently from the first.
I squeeze his hand, then glance toward my abandoned paintbrush. “I should finish that.”
“You should eat first.”
“Bossy, bossy,” I tut.
“You have consumed half a pastry since noon.”
“How do you know what I ate today?” Camille freezes, eyes widening. “Camille?”
“You told me.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
I narrow my eyes. “What did I say?”
“You sent me a photograph of your lunch.”
Oh.
Right.
A baguette, cheese, and a peach.
“Okay.”
His shoulders drop, and I feel guilty. Not because I asked, but because I see how quickly he prepares himself for the possibility that he has crossed a line.
I squeeze his hand again. “Hey.”
“Yes?”
“You can know things about me.” He looks at me. “You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re my boyfriend. Not a parole officer.”
A smile touches his mouth. “Boyfriend.”
“You still get weird about that word.”
“I like it.”
“Boyfriend.” His smile grows. “Boyfriend.”
“You sound twelve.”
“You began this.”
“I know.”
He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“You can ask what I ate,” I say. “You can ask where I’m going. You can worry. You can even tell me you think I’m doing something stupid.”
“That final permission may prove dangerous.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I roll my eyes, then say, “What you can’t do is decide the answer for me.”
Camille’s expression settles. “I know.”
“And if I tell you to back off?”
“I back off.”
“If I tell you I need help?”
“I help.”
“If I tell you I don’t?”
“You struggle unnecessarily while I suffer nearby.”
I burst out laughing. “That sounded painful.”
“It is often painful.”
“Poor baby.”
“I am taller than you.”
“You can be a tall baby.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Mon bébé.” My baby.
His face becomes horrified. My French may be improving after all. “Do not call me that.”
I beam. “Mon petit bébé.” My little baby.
“I will leave.”
“No, you won’t.”
His eyebrows rise, then he bends and kisses the top of my head. “I could.” I look up. “But I don’t want to.”
Camille gathers the empty cups and carries them toward the kitchen.
I watch him go through my door.
There are nights I wake from a dream about Henri and reach across the bed before I am even fully conscious, searching for Camille’s warmth.
There are days when a memory of Paul hits sideways, and I call Camille because hearing his voice makes the room feel solid again.
There are moments Camille disappears inside grief for his mother or father and sits beside me without speaking because what he needs is not advice but another living person in the room.
Dependence is not the same thing as captivity.
Love is not the same thing as surrender.
I can need Camille and still have a house with my name on the paperwork.
I can love him and still close my own front door.
I can give him a key without giving him ownership.
And he can walk through that gate because I put it there.
Camille comes back outside. “You are becoming sentimental.”
I stare at him. “Were you reading my mind?”
“You have been sitting there staring at the gate for two minutes.”
“Oh.” I grin. “Tu m’aimes.” You love me.
“Yes.”
“French.”
He looks at me with the resigned expression of a man who has accepted that this is apparently his life. “Je t’aime.” I love you.
I smile. “Encore.” Again.
We both hear it, that word.
Once a password.
Once a plea from a heartbroken, frightened man who wanted a second dance.
Once something attached to fear and evidence and everything that dragged us into each other’s lives.
Again.
Camille steps closer, his hand coming up to rest gently at the side of my neck.
“Je t’aime,” he says again. I love you.
I lean into him.
“Encore.”